“We didn’t stay here long,” I replied. “Although his main beef was less the pain, more the fact that you had laughed at the email in which he described his unfortunate tumble.”

“Why did you tell him I laughed?” rebuked Daisy.

“I broke down under interrogation,” I said. “He made me swear that I didn’t laugh, which I was honestly able to say. Then he asked me to swear that you didn’t laugh either.”

“If he hadn’t wanted anyone to laugh, he shouldn’t have written the email in comedic style, describing in detail how he prevented the laptop from getting any damage by taking the brunt of the fall himself in painful places,” said Daisy. “Only a man!”

This time we both laughed.

“Anyway,” Daisy continued. “These pavilion benches are agony even without a sore back. Why on earth do the gentlemen of the MCC put up with this, while at the same time they spend all that money making the rest of the seating at Lord’s more comfortable?”

“That’s what I always say,” said the lady-half of an equally rebellious Middlesex couple sitting in front of us. “I make it more tolerable with these cushions,” she continued, showing off a Middlesex-emblazoned cushion thing for rump and lower back. We discussed the contraption and other things besides with the nice couple for a while.

After seeing Daisy fidget again, I said: “You usually prefer to sit on the sun deck, Daisy, where the seating is a bit more comfy.”

So we were off like a flash to the top deck. We found a very comfortable spot, right at the front of the turret furthest from the action. It had a suitable table for our picnic, as well as directors’ chairs, which pleased Daisy, who had made the picnic that day. I hesitate to set out the delights of that picnic to you in detail, dear reader. My description might induce envy and upset, whereas my purpose is to provide you with levity and cheer. Suffice it to say that Daisy had pulled off a blinder that day.

Later, when the rain came, Daisy suggested we look at the new club shop behind the pavilion, which is controversially now stocking both Middlesex (MCCC) and Marylebone (MCC) cricket club goods and gimcrack. In particular, Daisy wanted to check out the lauded cushions. The delightful shop lady explained the various rump-support wares to Daisy, while I looked on the other side of the shop at cricket balls and other boy-stuff.

“There are Middlesex cushions and also MCC cushions, but you need to be a member of the MCC to buy the latter,” Daisy called out to me.

“What’s the difference between the two?” I asked.

“The MCC ones are twice as thick and twice as much money,” said Daisy.

Give us the component parts of the picnic one by one with those least likely to induce envy first. If we reach a tipping point where it becomes unbearable, we’ll stop you. At this point you can inform us how many more foodstuffs you have to list and we can marvel at the implications of this.